


Delicate and Racy

by ChampagneSly



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: M/M, Romance, Smut, Wine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-05-31
Updated: 2012-05-31
Packaged: 2017-11-06 10:42:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/417948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ChampagneSly/pseuds/ChampagneSly
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So, Italy invites Germany over to help him organize his new wine cellar.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Delicate and Racy

When no one answered after his second ringing of the doorbell, Germany reluctantly opened the door with the spare set of keys Italy had pressed into his pocket one morning with fluttering assurances that now Germany could come to him any time, all the time. He tried to suppress the urge to straighten the chaos of papers and discarded envelopes on the entry way table as he took off his coat and called out his terse greetings, suddenly anxious that he might have misunderstood Italy’s rushed and garbled phone call insisting that he come over and help as soon as possible.  
  
He wandered through the living room and the kitchen, trying to ignore the familiarly frustrating clutter that never seemed to stay put for long, no matter how often Germany followed in Italy’s wake and put things to rights. And yet, for all that the sight of Italy’s abandoned brush dipped in a vase still brimming over with blooms made his fingers twitch, Germany knew that he would sit quietly on the couch besides tumbling stacks of books and let Italy paint his picture for the hundredth time in more years than he could remember.  
  
The strange echoing sound of his name shouted from whereabouts unknown startled him from his wasteful daydreams, reminding him that he had come for a purpose. Even if he had yet to properly ascertain what exactly that purpose was.  
  
“Italy,” Germany asked sharply, turning on his heels in the direction of the voice calling to him, “Where are you?”  
  
“Down here! In the cellar!” Italy’s reply carried to him, excited and breathless in spite of the distance.  
  
Wondering what horrors of disorganization could await him in Italy’s cellar, Germany quickened his pace and made for the short flight of stairs that slid into the dim coolness beneath the living floors, stumbling on the final step as he came to attention. He could not keep the surprise from marring his forehead or widening his eyes. The unexpected discovery of pristine wooden racks under soft lighting was almost as starling as Italy standing among cases and cases of wine, with shirt sleeves rolled up to the elbows and holding a notebook…as though he were actually in the throes of planning.  
  
Italy smiled at him as he ever did, with such warmth and joy Germany always wondered if Italy thought they had been apart much longer than his carefully kept calendar indicated. His own lips refused to make such unmitigated expressions, but he unfolded his arms and turned out his hands just enough that Italy might take it as an invitation for a closer hello.  
  
“Germany, Germany,” Italy murmured as he tossed the notebook on one of the countless boxes of wine, “What do you think of my new cellar? Do you you like it?”  
  
Germany nodded crisply, take a small step forward to close the distance between them, admiring the obvious craftsmanship of the racks. “It seem to be in good order. But when did you decide to do such a thing?”  
  
Italy hummed and threw his arms out wide, at once close enough that Germany could see the happiness in the gaze that peered up at him, “You are always saying I should take better care of that which is special and wonderful and beautiful. And so I decided to make a new home for all of the precious wine of my people!”  
  
Germany flushed and stammered that he while he was certain he would not have described the need for proper care in such terms, he was pleased that Italy had made such choice, as good organization would allow him more enjoyment of his collection.  
  
“Mmmm,” Italy nodded as he smile slid into something that always gave Germany pause, “And I thought there was no one better than Germany to help me make this new home perfect. To make sure every bottle has a special place of its own.”  
  
“Ah,” Germany coughed, looking away when his willful hands settled on Italy’s waist, bending down as fingers cradled his jaw and pulled him near, “Yes, I can assist you in this matter.”  
  
“Very good,” Italy murmured delightedly, pressing the expected kiss hello to each of Germany’s warm cheeks.  
  
He had not, however, anticipated that Italy would brush his thumbs over his ridiculous blush and kiss his lips. Germany still marveled that Italy could be so quick to exploit an advantage, tongue slipping between the surprised parting of Germany’s lips to embrace him, bold and deep and entirely inappropriate for the middle of the afternoon.  
  
But Italy tasted of cherried richness, insistent beneath the flex of fingers Germany was certain were going to push Italy away very soon, because there were things to-do that somehow seemed less pressing when Italy was sucking on his bottom lip and making that little sound of pleasure.  
  
“Wait, Italy,” Germany said, shamed to find that his voice was not so much a command but a roughened plea, forcing his arms to put inches between his chest and the excited racing of Italy’s heart. Italy pouted but relinquished his hold, eyeing him with far too much amusement for Germany’s liking.  
  
“There is work to be done,” Germany insisted, trying not to fall into the deliberate trap of Italy licking away the remnants of his kiss, cheeks heating once more when Italy winked at him and answered happily,  
  
“You are right! All things in good time!”  
  
He straightened and adjusted his pants as Italy sauntered away, leaving him with the distraction of desire and the lingering taste of spice and oak in his mouth. He wondered what it was that had such flavors, that made Italy so bold so early in the day. But when Italy began to busy himself with one of the countless cases, Germany shook his head of such idle concerns and let the balm of organization and order assuage his concerns.  
  
To his great surprise, Italy took to his recommendations and instructions without complaint, nodding and smiling as Germany poked through boxes and admired labels, devising a system of classification based on region, producer, and vintage. He could not but want to give Italy the best advice, to ensure that the utility of the space was maximized. And in a quiet afternoon spent sliding aged bottles into perfectly hewn slots, there was unexpected enjoyment to be found in listening to Italy ramble happily about how this bottle or that bottle came to him.  
  
Germany would have lost himself in the satisfaction of chaos coming to control but for the continuous little touches of Italy’s fingers as they managed to reach into the case for another bottle at the same time. Or the strange way Italy seemed to always wish to slide beneath his arms to inspect Germany’s work, the curve of his hip shifting over the swell of Germany’s thigh, thoughts momentarily drifting low and shameful as he watched Italy arch his back to reach for the highest shelves.  
  
“Ah! I almost forgot! But now we’ve been working very hard and I am quite thirsty, and I think even Germany could not object to a little rest,” Italy exclaimed in a long rush of words and nonsense, interrupting Germany’s deliberations on Italy’s height, “Would you like some wine?”  
  
Germany frowned and looked at his watch, casting Italy a disapproving glare, “Italy. It is not even 3pm.”  
  
“You do not understand,” Italy sighed, the disappearance of his smile causing little quakes of guilt and recrimination in Germany’s resolution, “I found a bottle with no label and I had to open it so I could taste the wine and know where it was from so we could put it away in its proper place.”  
  
Inevitably, he retreated when assaulted by Italy’s disappointment, Germany softened, shaking his head as he muttered, “You realize that we cannot store an open bottle of wine.”  
  
Italy brightened once more, smiling so quickly that German suspected he was being teased, “Yes, yes! How sad that I did not have Germany here with me to tell me such things before the cork was set free from its prison. But as soon as I opened it, I realized that now there was no other choice but to finish the bottle.”  
  
“Your logic is as unsound as ever, Italy,” Germany chastened, resting his back against the last of the boxes, flushing when Italy winked at him and filled the cellar with unabashed and knowing laughter. Seemingly undaunted by Germany’s scowl, Italy returned to him with the offering in hand, invading the space between his legs with that same smile that had greeted him hours earlier, at once endearing and alarming.  
  
“We’re not finished,” Germany insisted uselessly, trapped between cases of unsorted wine and the stubborn set of Italy’s jaw, unable to tear his eyes from the shameless and improper way Italy drank straight from the bottle, a single streak of red escaping from the corner of his mouth.  
  
Italy swallowed, ignoring his reasonable assertion as he leaned closer and murmured, “We’re taking a break to remember what’s good. And I promise you this wine of mine is very good.”  
  
Germany closed his eyes to deny the heat in Italy’s gaze, his pulse already tripping too quickly and his desire remembering how it was to pick up where he had forcibly left off, asking lowly, “If the bottle has no label, how can you be sure it is Italian?”  
  
Italy laughed softly, breath spilling over the warmth of Germany’s cheeks, the only warning he received before Italy kissed him, sharing the taste of wine on his tongue as Germany surrendered with embarrassing rapidity, waving the white flag of lust when Italy smiled and climbed into his lap. Germany sighed and indulged in touching his tongue to the stain of red from Italy’s careless drinking, recognizing the cherry and earth from an earlier embrace, understanding now what had emboldened Italy so. He shivered beneath the slow roll of Italy’s hips over his lap and listened to the sound of glass meeting glass in the boxes that supported his weight, distracting him from the needy, demanding moans Italy was whispering into their kiss. Practicality necessitated that he give into the need to wrap his arms around Italy’s arching back and shift forward so as not to risk breaking any of Italy’s precious things.  
  
Italy hummed approvingly and settled fully over the aching hardness of his cock, laughing breathlessly when Germany’s traitorous hands splayed over the soft familiarity of Italy’s bottom and squeezed.  
  
“How could I not know,” Italy whispered, hands making a mess of Germany’s hair as he did what Italy did best, disruption and disorder of his best laid intentions, “I would know my own wine as surely as Germany would know his own.”  
  
Germany craned his neck to permit Italy’s willful mouth to explore his jaw, quickly losing ground to the insistent fingers that toyed with his buttons and traced gentle, teasing patterns over the bare skin of his chest, as he struggled to keep pace with Italy’s red wine affections. That Italy could move with such finesse and assurance, could outstrip him so resolutely in matters such as these had yet to cease being a surprise. That Italy wished to employ such tactics on him still burned hot and low in the quietest corners of his mind.  
  
It was true, Germany thought desperately, nipping at the happy smile pressed against his own worried mouth, tearing one hand away from the swell of Italy’s bottom to earn a throaty moan with the touch of his fingers to Italy’s zipper. There was no mistaking Italy in the taste of that wine, the softness of summer fruit disguising the lingering assertion of earth and spice. And had his rationale not been shattered by the sudden feeling of cool air rushing over his cock and the strange timelessness of Italy’s kiss as a hot palm pressed against him, he would knew never have entertained such romantic thoughts.  
  
“I am not sure that is true for me,” Germany whispered thoughtlessly as he looked at the redness of Italy’s lips and the richness of his eyes, closing his own to avoid the tenderness that was his undoing when Italy kissed his cheek and trailed fingers down the length of his cock.  
  
“You are very silly,” Italy murmured softly, continuing to tease as he talked, “Of course Germany is just like his wine. So sweet and delicate.”  
  
“I am neither of those things!” Germany insisted, groaning when Italy punctuated his ridiculous assertions by brushing his thumb over the tip and pushing his own desire into the fumbling of Germany’s fingers. Mercifully for the bruising of his ego, Italy raised up on his knees, giving German’s artless, foolish hands the space to take Italy’s cock from his pants and return all the lust and affection muddying his thoughts.  
  
“But you are,” Italy said, pressing the hand not currently tormenting him over Germany’s heart, lips painting a picture that was too pretty to be any accurate representation, “You are so sweet and so lush and so fine that I give myself a headache from wanting too much.”  
  
Germany did not know it was possible to flush with such intensity, arching into the surety of Italy’s strokes as he felt the hot push and pull of Italy’s cock against his palm, gazing down at what little skin was visible beneath hands and misused clothes so as to avoid the look in Italy’s eyes. It was bad enough that he could not help but listen, when Italy’s mouth was pressed against his throat and whispering in his ear, telling him such things.  
  
He stilled the rush of words with a kiss, preferring to taste Italy, rich and dangerous, than endure such extolling of his dubious qualities. Italy sighed and shifted, bringing their cocks together in such a way that had Germany wondering how he was to survive knowing that Italy had an entire cellar of such intoxicants, accepting without question when their hands were laced together and Italy took control. He pushed against the fingers splayed over his chest, drumming a steady beat over the racing of his heart and kissed Italy deeply, regretting that he did not know how to say in words that he was not meant for such beautiful and kind portraiture.  
  
Italy came first, sighing and shaking, slicking their palms while Germany caught him about the waist and supported his rushing desire. The sight of Italy undone, fluttering eyelashes and stained lips was enough to keep him awake at night when they were parted, when he kept his measured distance out of practical considerations. And so he let Italy murmur and moan all his lingering pleasure against his lips and came breathlessly with the lazy brush of a wet thumb over his cock.  
  
He sagged against the boxes of wine, holding Italy gently and listening to the soft whistle of his breath as they settled, feeling the cold from the cellar floor temper the heat of satiation, reluctant embarrassment creeping into his thoughts. He looked down at the crown of familiar brown hair, mussed by his hands, feeling strange contentment drown logic, the soft touch of Italy’s fingers against his throat quelling all his protestations. When Italy peered up at him with such gentle fondness, Germany stilled and parted his lips intending to declare had spent enough idle time, only to have other words entirely spill out,  
  
“German wines are known to stay true the longest.”  
  
Italy smiled at him and pressed a kiss to the renewed clench of his jaw, closing his eyes and murmuring, “Then perhaps you will bring a bottle for my cellar. So I can keep it for many, many years.”  
  
Germany sighed and held Italy near, promising quietly, ”As many as you like.”  



End file.
